“I—of-of course. I would like that very much.”

Clearly, he’d shocked her. Wynter discovered he liked shocking her. He liked the way darker color flooded her cheeks, turning that beautiful brown skin a dusky rose.

“Go change into your riding habit. I’ll meet you by the stables. Ladies.” He bowed to the women of his court.

The gossip was buzzing before he even left the room. Good. His queen, who had been an outcast in her own home all her life, would not be an outcast in his.

Yesterday, Khamsin had accused him of sabotaging her efforts to fit in with his court and his people. He hadn’t deliberately set out to do so, but he couldn’t pretend that his determination to avoid her hadn’t resulted in precisely that outcome. And Galacia was right, too. He had failed in his duty to look after Khamsin properly. He had contributed to her alienation and misery—he, who was bound by the laws of Wintercraig, to put her well-being before his own.

That disgraceful lack of care ended today.

Over Valik’s objections, they rode out alone, without a single guard in attendance. Not the King and Queen of Wintercraig, but Khamsin and Wynter, husband and wife.

Thanks in no small part to the storm, he and Khamsin had generated yesterday, Wintercraig lay buried under three feet of fresh snow. Tree boughs sagged under the weight accumulated on their branches. Travel was possible only because crews of men had been working around the clock since the end of the storm to clear the main roads. Piles of packed snow six feet deep lined the thoroughfares.

Khamsin eyed the wintry scene with open dismay. “Did we do this?”

Wyn hesitated. Even though the ferocity of their storm had faded when anger turned to passion, he hadn’t thought to disperse it until hours later. The new accumulation of snow was definitely their fault. He wouldn’t lie to her, but neither did he want her fretting all day over something they could not change, so he said, “Winter storms have swept the Craig long before you or I were born. It’s the price of living in one of the most beautiful lands in all of Mystral.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Noticed that, did you?” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “All right, yes, the storm we called—you and I together—brought the snow. But it would have come on its own some other time. Blizzards far worse than the one we called are commonplace in the Craig. And we need the snow, Khamsin. We thank Wyrn for sending it. Come spring, the waterfalls will flow from the mountaintops, and our land will turn green and lush and more beautiful than any place in the world.”

That mollified her enough to wipe the dreadful guilt from her gaze. She leaned back in the saddle and gazed at the breathtaking scenery around them.

“I can’t deny it is beautiful.” The mountains of the Craig towered into clear, cloudless blue skies, their jagged black peaks now entirely covered in flows of white. The valley and forested lowland mountains sparkled in the sunlight like the pristine crystalline perfection of the Atrium’s ice forest. “You’re sure we didn’t hurt anyone? No one got caught out in the storm?”

“Winterfolk know how to survive blizzards,” he assured her. “No one goes out at this time of year without protective gear and supplies enough to weather a bad storm. And that includes me.” He patted the saddlebags and blanket roll tied to the back of his saddle.

“What about the snow on the mountains?” She eyed the towering peaks. “Krysti warned me about the danger of avalanches when we were out riding.”

“They are always a danger,” he admitted, “but since before my grandfather’s time, we have sent teams of men in the mountains to keep the snowpacks under control.”

“How do they do that? Are they weathermages?”

He smiled. “No. They’re ordinary Wintermen who climb the mountains after every storm to measure the ice packs, and when necessary, start smaller avalanches to clear the snow.”

“And that works?” She looked plainly skeptical.

“There are still deadly avalanches, of course, but far fewer than before.”

They had reached Skala-Holt, the furthest distance west of Gildenheim Khamsin and Krysti had ever ridden. The villagers Khamsin had been trying so hard to win over stopped in their tracks when she rode in with Wynter at her side.

“I’m hungry,” Wynter announced. “How about you? The pub here serves a delicious venison stew.”

Khamsin hesitated. Liese, Skala-Holt’s pubkeeper who’d lost her husband in the war, had made it clear Khamsin wasn’t welcome in her establishment. Oh, Liese had never outright refused to serve Wintercraig’s queen, but her thinly veiled hostility and curt tone had made Kham and Krysti’s few visits to the pub very uncomfortable.

“It’s already getting late,” Kham hedged. “We should be heading back.”

But Wynter had already brought Hodri to a halt beside the pub’s front door. “We’ll eat here,” he said. He dismounted and came around to help Khamsin down. He handed the reins of their mounts to a waiting stablelad and, with a cool nod to the gathering villagers, put a hand on the small of Kham’s back and escorted her into the pub.

A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Half a dozen villagers were seated at the bar and tables. Liese, the pubkeeper, started to scowl when she saw Khamsin walk through the door, then froze when Wynter ducked in behind her and straightened to his full height. All conversation in the room ceased.

“Your Grace.” Liese came around the pub’s bartop. Her gaze darted nervously to Khamsin’s face. “Your Grace.” She dipped an awkward curtsy.